


Family Reunion

by The_Jeneral



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End (2007)
Genre: F/M, Gen, and Jack Sparrow too, but none of them actually appear in this story, it's tricky like that, mentions Will and Elizabeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:10:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Jeneral/pseuds/The_Jeneral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She didn't need to hear the legend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> When this movie came out, there was backlash about the ending not being strictly "happy" for Will and Elizabeth, but I loved it. This story explains why. Just now getting around to posting it on AO3, now that I have an account here.
> 
> Also, I wrote this literally hours after seeing AWE for the first time, waaaay back in 2007, and couldn't remember if the green flash was at sunrise or sunset. So if I got that wrong, sorry.

I’d changed planes twice on the way to the Bahamas, and the puddle-jumper I had to take to the smaller island had left me feeling queasy.  Once we landed, I grabbed my bag as soon as I could and looked for a taxi.  There were a couple out front of the tiny airport, the drivers half-asleep from the heat.

I leaned down to the first driver.  “Do you take Visa?”

He opened one eye, then the other, then smiled, the white of his teeth dazzling in his dark face.  “I got a machine right here,” he said, gesturing to his right.  The sun was still blinding so I couldn’t really see what he was pointing at, but that was good enough for me.  I slid in the backseat, gave him the name of the hotel and leaned back, staring idly out the window as the scenery zipped by.  Not much had changed in ten years.  

“You new to the island?” he asked.  He thought I was a tourist – his Caribbean patois was thicker than it needed to be. 

“No.”  I closed my eyes.  The trees were going by pretty fast now and my stomach was still kind of touchy.

He didn’t take the hint.  “Oh, comin’ back, are ya?”  I could hear the slightly solicitous grin in his voice.  He still thought I was a tourist, and he was probably winding up to sell me something.  “How long you staying this trip?”

I clenched my teeth for a second, but there was no way of getting out of this conversation without being rude.  And I was too tired to be rude.  “Just a few days,” I said.  “I’m visiting family.”  I tried not to snort as I said that – what an understatement.

At the magic word “family,” he knew I wasn’t a tourist and dropped the thick accent.  “Nice hotel you’re staying at,” he said.  “No room at the family home?”

“Not really.”  Was that house still even standing?  I tried to remember back to the first time.  I’d been five, so the memory was pretty dim.  I’d thought that little house by the cliff was the grandest playhouse ever created.  Mom’s great-granddad had told me that it was The Original House, and I had taken it to mean it was the first house ever built anywhere.  It wasn’t till the second time, when I’d been fifteen and we’d gathered at the tiny ruins, that I’d more fully understood the romance of the place.  (Mom’s great-granddad had gone by then.  We were an oddly long-lived family, but not immortal.)  The house that _she_ had built, all those generations ago.  There was a “W” etched into one of the hearthstones, the arms of the letter entwined around an “E”.  The house hadn’t been habitable, not then and it certainly wasn’t now.  But the stones of it were still solid, though the roof had gone long ago.  I frowned.  The past couple summers had seen some pretty killer hurricanes.  Had the house survived?  I suddenly itched to see it, to see the letters on the hearthstone.  If I could see them again, everything would be all right.

“Too bad you’re a native,” the cabbie said, jerking me back from my momentary distress.  He was still cheerful, even if he was now easier to understand.  “I had the story all worked up and ready to go.  The tourists love that crap.  But I’m sure you know it already, don’t you?  The legend of the green flash?”

Now my lips quirked in a smile and I relaxed again.  “I know it,” I said.  Did I ever.  “But hey, knock yourself out.  It’s been a while.”

His answering laugh was rich, like a distant roll of thunder.  “My kids love this one,” he said.  “It all starts with a man named Davy Jones…”

And he was off.  I nestled further down into the worn leather seat and let my mind drift.  I only half-listened to his story, but that wasn’t his fault.  He told it well enough – very well, in fact.  Just the right mixture of adventure and romance, sadness with a dash of hope.  He’d been brought up on the legend, just like everyone else who spent their childhood on this island.  I let his voice telling the old tale wash over me, center me, while I tried to think about more practical matters.  I’d probably go with Grandma to the bank vault tomorrow morning to get the chest – we liked to have it with us on the day.  She was the keeper of the keys now, since Mom’s great-granddad died.  Not just the weird-looking ancient key, but the smaller, more modern safety deposit box key that now held the black iron chest.  One could never be too careful with hearts these days.

I was excited to see the family again.  Although my grandparents had emigrated to the United States in the forties, they had come back often, and when my mother had grown up and married, she had done the same.  But I’d gone off to college and hadn’t been back since.  As much as I loved my extended family, it was hard to get the vacation time, and I didn’t see the point in coming back before now.  _He_ wouldn’t be there, after all. 

My older brother had teased me after that second time, saying I had had a crush on _him_.  But my great-great aunt Ruth had confided later that she’d had a crush on him once too.  Hell, how could you not, knowing the story?  We should all wish for someone to love us that much.

But it wasn’t just that.  It was the way he looked at me, that second time when I was fifteen.  Nothing romantic, that would just be weird.  But there was a softening in his eyes, a kind of delight mixed with pain. Great-great aunt Ruth said it was because of my name.  Made sense.  We all carried the surname, after all – daughters of daughters, like me, got it for a middle name.  But I was the first one in all the generations to have both of them.  I blame my mom – she’s going to take this keeper of the keys thing seriously when it’s her turn.

I opened my eyes in time to see the hotel coming up on the left just as the cabbie wound down the tale.  “And so they say that once, every ten years, come the sunrise you can see a flash of green light over the water.  And that’s William Turner, back from the underworld to spend that one day every ten years on land with his kin.”  The driver cut the steering wheel left, coming to a smooth stop in front of the walkway leading up to the hotel.  I was impressed.  He really did have the story down, if he could tell it from the airport to the hotel with such perfect timing.  I opened the car door and shouldered my bag, digging in my purse for my wallet.

I knew that he’d know the minute I gave him my Visa card.  My full name was embossed on the plastic, after all: Swann Turner Schofield.  I allowed myself a small smile at his double-take.

“Like I said, I’m here to see family.”  I signed the slip and took back my card.  Then I grinned.  “Pick me up on Friday to go back to the airport, and I’ll tell you about Uncle Jack Sparrow and the Fountain of Youth.”


End file.
